


Dragon King

by malum_animi



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 03:41:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11176269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malum_animi/pseuds/malum_animi
Summary: Roman had never wanted a title beyond blacksmith. But it seemed the gods had a different plan for him, as he finds himself unwillingly drawn into two different wars. One with Alduin and the other with his own people, torn apart by civil war. With no family, and unwilling to drag his new found comrades into a war of destiny's making, Roman thinks himself alone in this battle. But the stubbornness of Ulfric Stormcloak knew no bounds.





	Dragon King

Dragonborn. It wasn't something that would ever sit well with Roman Heavy-Hammer, not even years after the world was safe from Alduin. He knew the legends and the songs and the tales of the Dragonborn just like any other Nord would. Except that Roman was only half Nord. With a Nord father and a Redguard mother, Roman took after his father in everything but his skin, having the dark skin of a Redguard. But he had grown up in Skyrim, learning blacksmithing from his father as a child, so he would be able to take over the family forge one day. But that never happened. When he was barely 10, his mother had taken ill and his father had sold off the forge and moved them to Cyrodiill in hopes that the healers there would be able to nurse her back to health with the magics that Skyrim rejected. They hadn't been that lucky. Not three years after their move, his mother had died from her illness. And so Roman had grown up in the Imperial City, not all that poor as his father worked as a smith for the upper class. Roman put his days in Skyrim behind him and looked ahead to a life well lived in Cyrodiill.

His father passed when he was 17. Cut down by a angered Nord who didn't want to pay Imperial prices for his steel. Roman's axe had found it's way into the man's back before his father's body was cold. But the Empire's ways were different than Skyrim, and even though he was avenging his father's murder, Roman knew he wouldn't be able to stay in Cyrodiil unless he wanted to face charges. So he had packed up his things, given his father the most respectful burial he could, and fled the Imperial City. He didn't step foot back into the providence for another fifteen years.

Roman had known he had over stayed his welcome in Cyrodiil when the guards had started giving him second looks. He already knew he was a wanted murderer in the province, and it was a risk even coming back. But he had had business to take care of. But when he realized the guards were starting to wonder if he was really who he had claimed to be, he had packed his things, paid the innkeeper, and made his way towards the border. Skyrim would be safe. He knew his homeland was in the beginnings of a civil war, and he knew the Imperials there would be too busy trying to quell the rebellion to pay much attention to a fleeing murderer from the Imperial City.

He hadn't expected to get caught up in an Imperial raid.

He had already crossed the boarder miles back and had finally started to relax when he'd come across what he'd assumed to just be a patrol for the hold they were in. He hadn't joined up with them, but he guessed just being on the same road as them was enough for the Empire. He hadn't even raised his blade when the Imperial soldiers had burst from the brush, swords drawn and arrows at the ready. And that was when he had realized that the group of soldiers he was with wasn't a patrol. They were Stormcloaks. When Roman imagined setting foot in Helgen again, it hadn't been on the back of a wagon, hands bound and stripped down to rags on the way to the executioners block. He hadn't seen the town he'd been born in since they had left Skyrim all those years ago. At least he was going to die at home.

It was also the first time he had ever seen Ulfric Stormcloak. He'd heard tales of the Jarl of Windhelm, but who hadn't heard at least one story of the Bear of the North? The only man brave, or stupid enough, to challenge the High King and start a civil war. Even bound and gagged, Roman could tell he wasn't a man you'd want to mess with. Handsome too, with his broad shoulders and rugged looks. If they weren't on their way to their deaths and he'd had a few meads, he was the kind of man Roman might have come on to.

A dragon also hadn't been on Roman's list of things to expect once he returned to Skyrim. Escaping from Helgen had been a blur to him, the fire and the screams of both soldiers and civilians as they tried to escape the wrath of a dragon. Roman had ended up with the Stormcloaks, hands still bound as they listened to the roar of the dragon and the screams of the poor souls still out in the open.

"Legends don't burn down cities." Ulfric had muttered at the words of his soliders. Roman couldn't help but silently agree with him. In the end, he had ended up being seperated from all but one of the Stormcloaks, Ralof, and had gladly followed him back to Riverwood. Though his found that his eyes kept drifting to the skies, wary of another dragon swooping down on them again. Roman didn't linger long though, spending just enough time in the small village to gather some supplies and agree to carry the message of what had happened to Helgen to Whiterun.

Roman had never been to the hold's capital before, but he could see the appeal. The blacksmith had been happy to take the wolf pelts he had gotten while on the road, and had even let him use her forge to repair the axe he had taken from Helgen. Though he did make his way to Dragonsreach fairly quickly, knowing that a dragon flying around the hold was something the Jarl needed to know about sooner rather than later.

He didn't even mind all the much when Balgruuf sent him into Bleak Falls Barrow, he relished the chance to cut down some undead, and he knew he could use the gems and gold that were no doubt littering the old ruin. The elf he had cut down from the webs had been annoying, mostly in the idea that he thought he could lie to Roman and get away with it. A well placed arrow in the back had taken care of that though.

Roman had never been inside one of the ancient Nordic ruins before, but he knew enough that he had known what to expect for the most part. Drauger, spiders, skeevers, and traps set by the Nords who had buried their dead here. He didn't feel bad looting the bodies of the Drauger, the undead were undead for a reason, they weren't worth the gold that they had been buried with. And he was glad he had taken the golden claw from the elf, he wasn't sure he would have been able to get past the puzzle door without it.

The main burial chamber had him in awe. It wasn't as extravagant as it could have been, he was sure, but it was still a sight to see. And he found himself approaching the stone wall that made a half circle around the crypt, the strange writing carved into it that wasn't any language he'd come across in his travels. As he reached out, running his fingers over the stone, it started to glow.

Roman stumbled back, hand immediately going to the hilt of his axe as the glow got brighter, radiating from just one word on the wall. His curiosity had him stepping forward again, hand reaching out and brushing against the stone once more and feeling like he was unable to pull away as the glow lifted from the wall and swirled up his arm, vanishing into his chest. Once he was able to pull himself away, he pulled his armor to the side, frowning when he saw no hint of the magical glow. But he shook it off, turning around just as the crack of stone alerted him to the waking Draugr behind him. He couldn't dwell on whatever it was now, he had a draugr to dispatch and a stone to collect.


End file.
